by Troy Conway
Mady Morrow was built like a carbon copy of Lillian Russell. Big, busty and a real dairy maid. She also had that gorgeous freedom of spirit that permits a girl to say everything and do everything without one squeamish second thought. She practically undressed me on the way to Madame’s.
“Will you cut it out?” I slapped her hands way out of bounds. “Relax. Later but not now. This is important.”
“Okay. But you take my room number. You memorize it, you don’t forget it. Hot damn, this is a heaven-sent opportunity. I ball with you and I can kiss this Académie goodbye forever. I won’t need any further instruction.”
“Why? Isn’t it fun here?”
“Ahhh. You can’t get a man with a book. All the brains in the world can’t make a man get the hots for you. Madame thinks so but Madame’s a kook. You’ll see. Here we are.”
Before I could pursue that line of interesting investigation, she had goosed me so that I came slamming up against the door that said: Madame de Jussac, Principe. It was a steel door made to look like knotty pine. There was a gilded, embossed doorknob, right out of public school days. I felt a twinge of nostalgia. And then I felt Mady Morrow’s right hand jarring my small intestine as she laughed happily in my ear.
“Man, are you put together! Mmmmmm . . . I’ll wait right here.”
“Aren’t you going to announce me? Suppose she’s doing an excercise with one of the students?”
“How did you guess? Go on. We all have permission to walk in anytime. She won’t scream. This is the Académie Sexualité, n’est pas?” Her French was still atrocious. I said no more and escaped through the door. It swung on well-oiled hinging.
With Mady Morrow behind me and Madame De Jussac in front of me, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Sort of Maria Ouspenskaya with a large gob of Marjorie Main and Anna Magnani thrown in but I’m no crystal ball expect. I was dead wrong.
The dame behind the plain chrome desk with glass top stepped out of my dreamland which is always peopled by the likes of Loren, Liz Taylor, Vera Miles and Kim Novak.
“Yes?”
“My name is Damon. Professor Red Damon. I hope you can give me some of your time.”
“The Damon responsible for The Fetish Encyclopedia and all those volumes and treatises glorifying the carnal life? That Monsieur Damon?”
“Call me Rod. I’m a professor only to students.”
“Welcome to ’Académie Sexualité! We are honored, Monsieur Rod.”
“Thank you. Aren’t you just a wee bit chilly, Madame?”
She should have been. She was naked from the waist up, placing on display a most magnificent set of female appendages. I had to get my bearings. On her and her office before I took another step into it. She was regarding me curiously from behind the desk, not answering my question, and obviously amused by it.
First of all, except for the desk—which didn’t have so much as a blotter or pencil on it, only a French phone—the office was a bedroom. There were no file cabinets, no éscritoires, no nothing. Just the desk, four bare walls of nile green with French doors that opened on the quadrangle. And one bed. A bed of beds. Ever see one of those old movies where the queen is dying of something and maybe a dozen of the courtiers flock around to kiss her goodbye? That’s the kind of four-postered, brocaded, monstrosity that spread out across the other half of the room, facing the window so that the morning sun could flood pure gold over the counterpane, delighting or annoying whoever was getting forty winks or forty kicks among the percales.
As for Madame de Jussac, pardon me while I catch my breath.
Her hair was red, flaming Maureen O’Hara red and it hung down her naked torso like a mantle of royalty. The splendid breastworks, twin howitzers aimed at me across the desk top, with two cherry-red areolas of unblinking majesty, neither sagged, flopped or jiggled. They might have been made of marble, so perfect was their texture and contour and mold. If I’d taken a tape measure I would have guessed they’d come out even down to the one millionth of a fraction. I hadn’t seen such symmetry since my last glass of Balantine Beer. Her third ring was a seductive dimple of navel, as sensual as anything you could ever see. For toppers, the Madame’s skin was pure ivory. No freckles or wrinkles or light smattering of gooseflesh. She was a sight for sore eyes. And definitely for well ones.
The legs crossed behind the desk thrust out like long guns from the abbreviated folds of another of those leather mini-skirts. I looked around the office for the matching middie shirt. It was draped on the bed. Pinned to the collar were two glittering medallions of some kind, catching the light of the sun. Unless I was nuts, they were the regulation oak leaf clusters of a major in the United States Army.
I didn’t salute. I sat down in the chair in front of the desk. It was a red butterfly job that makes you sink almost out of sight. Sinking wasn’t so bad. I could see up the creamy alley of her thighs. Torpedo Alley where all male projectiles ought to go someday. There was a tantalizing patch of darkness that clearly showed that Madame was not wearing any panties.
Madame de Jussac got up from behind the desk and came around it. A flicker of something had flashed in her eyes when she caught me eyeing her with obvious approval.
She walked like a major too, shoulders back, breasts out, but no major I ever met made me feel like she did. I wanted to trip her to the carpet, which was leopard-skin and about a foot thick, and twist her knobs until I got China, but I bided my time. I get around to all of them sooner or later. There was no hurry.
She loomed over my chair. Her eyes bored down at me. Her face was a chiseled masterpiece. So many inches of nose, red mouth and cheekbone. She had been chipped from the marble of men’s dreams. Old Michelangelo would have cracked his hammer for her.
“So. You come to the Académie Sexualité and you disapprove of me at first sight. I suppose you will put that in your report to your Thaddeus X. Coxe Foundation?”
“Now, hold on. All I meant was—” I frowned. “The Coxe Foundation?”
“I know what you meant. Of course since they subsidize all that is here in the Académie, I cannot argue. But I assure you, Monsieur Damon. I have my reasons for going about—ah—topless, as you would say.”
“I would say,” I admitted, marveling at the devious brain of my employer and friend(?) Walrus-moustache. So the Coxe Foundation had footed the bill for the Academy. And he’d never told me. “And may I assure you your top is more not less. I’m delighted. No, I think they are swell. Point is—you must have a reason?”
She smiled and her icy tone dissolved.
“But of course! How else can I instruct these charming young girls in the matters of sexual education if I do not set them an example? I show them that a woman who is not ashamed of her gender will be proud to walk about, unimpeded, without hiding behind the garments of Victorian prudity. You see?”
“Yeah. Them that has them shows them. But why stop there? Why not go all the way?”
Her brows knit and then opened. “Ah! You mean in total nudity? I tried that. Only last month. But you see, within these walls, without men here, it is quite harmless and all my girls enjoyed it. There was an outbreak of some lesbian overtures—to be expected—but that was nothing. I could handle that. But you see, we do get men on the premises. The delivery people—the butcher, the baker, the wigmakers, all those animals! Naturally they went berserk at sight of these splendidly developed young women. We had several cases of forcible rape but the ladies refused to press the charges. So naturally, I had to expel them from the school, to save the faculty from scandal.”
“Oh, naturally.”
“Yes. So thoroughgoing nudity poses a problem. However, I think if my ladies learn to walk about without shame, showing their breasts, they will assume a natural attitude about men. Then their studies will take on a new dimension. You for instance, of course, a man of your experience—do my breasts cause you any discomfort? Or is your blood quickening, the palms of your hands perspiring? But what am I saying? Merely uncross your legs, plea
se.”
I uncrossed them. A naughty smile swept across her beautifully perfect face. She wagged a finger at me and her breasts shifted just enough to convince me they were alive.
“Ah—I see they do effect you! I could hang my chapeau on that if ever I wore a chapeau and I do not.”
“I,” I said firmly, “am only human, and Madame is tres knockout.”
“You are too kind.”
“I’m all kinds. Wait and see.”
She shrugged and the vital pair of mammaries danced. Still, she could not take her eyes off me. I would have tipped it for her if it had been a hat.
“Formidable!” she breathed.
“You can say that after you really get to know me better.”
She arched her mouth at me. The eyes mocked me.
“My body pleases you, is that not so? You find it enticing?”
“Just a little around the edges, yes. Don’t mind me. I always come to attention when in the presence of beautifully endowed females. It’s the tourist in me.”
She didn’t laugh. The green eyes were snaking up and down my full length. Madame must have seen plenty in her time, looking and thinking the way she did, but I was obviously something new under her sun. So I basked in some reflected glory.
I stared at her gorgeous shelf of treasures. It was simply incredible how well they matched, that gloriously symmetrical roundness and bold, vibrant fleshiness. Like two peas in a pod. Peas, hell! Balloons!
“Tell me something, Madame, if you will.”
“It will be my pleasure, Monsieur Rod.”
I shook my head. It was impossible to credit my eyes somehow. Just as she was so visibly impressed with my male artillery.
“I’ve often wondered,” I said as light as I could. “Swinging loose and free like that and kind of bouncing around together, don’t they ever get bruised or skinned or something?”
“Not in the slightest. Does that answer your question?”
“Uh—yes.” I was disappointed. I must have sounded disappointed.
“Shall I replace my blouse?”
“You do and I’ll knock you down. I’ll live. This is my normal condition. It doesn’t hurt at all.”
“Really? How extraordinary. But then the man who wrote Carry Them Back From Old Virginity must be an extraordinary man. It was a daring work, boldly conceived, brilliantly executed. Was it banned in America?”
“Only in Boston, but that helped the sales. Forget about me. Tell me about yourself.”
She laughed and marched back to the desk. From a rear view, her rump did not suffer by comparison. The ring motif was merely trebled in size. Nay, quadrupled.
“Mais non, my dear colleague. First you will tell me why you have chosen this time to honor us with your presence.”
“Oh, that little thing.”
“Yes, that. I must know. You see, I have a new program coming on the calendar and if you will be here long enough, perhaps I too can learn something about Sex from the great Professor Damon.”
“I see.” I stared at the nipples of her gorgeous artillery. “Well, frankly, Madame de Jussac, I’m in Paris as an advisor to one of the delegations for the peace talks. I can’t tell you who really. You understand. Security and all that. Being here, a stone’s throw from this famous institution, I thought I’d take a look-see. Even professors learn things as they go along. I have never stopped studying, you know.”
Her eyes studied me. Her mouth, very wide and finely lipped, ran over a pink tongue.
“But what would you, a sexologist, have to contribute to something as political as a peace conference?”
“Ah, that’s our secret, you see. But you surely do understand that there can be no harmony among nations if there is no harmony in the sex patterns and cultures of those nations.”
“Yes, that’s true.” Her eyes suddenly shone. “But, certainly! Love is the answer, as always.”
“Sure. We get Ho Chi Minh tattooed properly and he wouldn’t waste his time running around ruining things. Ten to one he hasn’t had his ashes hauled properly in years and that’s what’s bothering him.”
“You must be right. There is no other explanation for so much killing, so much cruelty. I wish a man like you were the leader of a country. What a difference your regime would make!”
“My regime is your regime,” I said gallantly, still working on those breasts. “Now tell me about Madame de Jussac. First name first.”
She laughed and sat down behind the desk. She gave me a break and folded her arms across her chest. Or rather she didn’t give me a break.
“Lilly is my name.” Her voice was crisp and businesslike. The major in her. “I am a native of Paris. Montmartre in ‘45. Yes, the war baby you might say. I never knew my father, perhaps he was one of your lovable G.I. Joes. I really do not care. My mother was killed in Paris during a bit of street fighting. The riots of ‘49. Since then, I did little except work, go to school. I graduated with honors in the social sciences and eventually all that led me here. I found that knowledge about sex and the human body and heart was all that interested me. Well, that is all there is to it. A dull story, I should think.”
“Not dull. Just incomplete. You left out the juicy parts, Madame. Did you not?”
A shadow passed across her face. She almost sighed. “Yes, I was married. Unfortunately, because of my lack of experience and knowledge, I chose a man who was more of a woman than I was. A sweet creature, all butter and chocolate. In fact, as homosexual as a—” She groped for a simile or adjective.
“Gay as a green goose?”
“Merci. As gay as that. In time, we divorced. He hung himself a year later with the cummerbund of his lover, a fat, disgusting munitions maker who since has gone to his own reward. Men!” She shook her head sadly, then suddenly snapped out of it. Her eyes, which I now saw were green, sparkled. “Alors. That is the story of one Lilly de Jussac. We will speak no more of it. Now, what can I do to make your visit here pleasant?”
“You could take off the rest of your clothes.”
She didn’t even blush. I realized then that she couldn’t. Her real secret had crept out during some of her sad tale.
“Be serious. Surely, you would like to see the building. The classrooms. You could speak with the students. That’s it, of course. Would you care to address the ladies in a series of lectures? They are excellent students, easily adaptable and would amaze you with their resourcefulness.”
“Sure. I’ll talk to them. I’ll be in Paris indefinitely. Line me up a few engagements and I’m your man.”
“You’re a strange man. You accept so readily.”
“I have to. The race is to the swift; we’re only going to be on this earth a short time; eat, drink and be merry—and all that jazz. What else is there?”
“Indeed.” She looked thoughtful and sat back in the chair. Her arms dropped and the Eastern and Western Hemispheres rose into the sunlight. “What else is there?”
“Name something. I’m game.”
Her face broke into a smile. “I have it. Would you like to witness the latest point in our program? You realize we teach all forms of sexual union here. The Sexual, Homosexual, Heterosexual, Animal Farm, the Asexual, Voyeurism, Frotteurism—all of those must be taught for a greater understanding of the extent and depth of the sexual in man and woman. Do you agree?”
“But why Frotteurism? That’s a new one on me.”
“To thrill those poor souls who get their excitation by rubbing against people. They do little else. Like in the theatres, the Metro—surely you have them in America?”
“In droves. On the IRT, the BMT, any crowded train.”
“You see? So—let me show you how our ladies are being taught the niceties and, er, unniceties of lesbian contact. We don’t have to leave the office. You have only to give me the word.”
‘ “You got it. Home, Lilly.”
She frowned, shrugged her shoulders and reached for the French phone. She murmured something into it, hung
up again and stood up. She stretched her lithe body and stalked to the big monster bed left over from a historical movie. She wasn’t wearing any shoes. The better to feel the leopard skin rug with, I supposed.
She couldn’t kid me much longer. All her actions and reactions were those of the dyed-in-the-wool Lesbian. I can tell. If I can’t tell, I’ve been stealing money for years. Madame Lilly had been born a bastard, never knew her parents, married a tweety-bird and never came down off the tree. So she had taken the easy way out. No man was going to top her and do what had been done to her mother. You could see it all so clear. The only question was, was it too late to save her? Was she too old to change her spots? She was Lesbo by right of vengeance. She was unique, by right of—what?
The door opened about five minutes later and in trooped Mady Morrow. I might have known. Mady was wild-eyed, breathing hard and very eager. She was marching smartly to the desk and saluting. Tie that, will you?
Madame Lesbo frowned.
“What are you doing here? I wanted Viviane.”
Mady kept a straight face. “Poor girl took sick with a dizzy spell right out in the corridor. So I came instead. Is that all right, Madame?”
Lilly fumed and looked at me.
“Damn fine with me,” I said, trying to be agreeable. “I like watching this one. She is so round and firm and fully packed.”
The Madame shrugged. “Morrow is well and good but I wanted to show you Viviane. She is one of those soft, sweet, fragile creatures. The Lesbian motif suits her to the nth. Morrow here is rather a buxom wench. A bull, if you will.”
“Then you be the cow,” I suggested.
That one hit a nerve. She stiffened and Mady Morrow was trying to keep a straight face.
“Very well. If you insist. But only on choice of female. I do not play a cow well. I instruct my ladies in how to perform as love slaves. Get on the bed, Morrow.”